


Forward Support

by detour



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Army Doctors, M/M, Medical Trauma, Original Character Death(s), Post-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-18 07:46:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10612395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detour/pseuds/detour
Summary: As a surgeon in a medical company deployed in the middle of a desert, Bucky plays poker, drinks, and tries to save as many lives as he can. He doesn’t think an inspection coming from a by-the-book army captain would be a problem. He’s wrong.(a modern take on a MASH unit deployed in an unnamed time/place/conflict)





	1. Chapter 1

They're sitting in the Swamp playing a lazy hand of poker when Parker bursts through the doorway of the tent, clutching a scrap of paper. He's more frantic than usual, breathless and focused on the message instead of how he's interrupting officers in their quarters.

He rests his hands on his knees, out of breath from the long run down the tent hallway from the office to officers' quarters.

"Take a minute, catch your breath," Rhodey says, tossing another chip into the pot to call. He's been waiting for Maximoff to take her turn for long enough that they're now sure she's fast asleep sitting up. 

No one's left in here to stand on tradition, not with Stark on duty. And Stark is kind of full of shit about regulations anyway, just enjoys seeing the enlisted men flustered in the presence of officers.

Parker's an easy target, even if the rest of them aren't into the game the same way that Stark is.

But: it's poker night, and with precious few moments off duty, no one feels like biting at whatever news Parker has.

Bucky folds and drops his hands to the table.

"Aw, no," Barton says, looking at his cards. "I thought maybe you were finally gonna win a hand."

"I was hoping someone might actually be a challenge," Rhodey says.

"I hoped to see a face card this hand," Bucky mutters. He's just glad the pot's only a couple of bucks. When Stark plays, he bets high and no one can keep up.

"You have the worst luck," Rhodey says. He leans back on the camp stool he's commandeered for the game. "Not that I'm complaining."

"Um, so, um, sir," Parker says. Everyone ignores him.

"I'm complaining," Bucky says. "Isn't the tradeoff lucky in love?"

Barton purses his lips. "Not a guarantee, the adage technically only promises bad luck in love if you're good at cards?"  

"And as I am a bachelor, could be some truth to that," Rhodey says, scooping the pot towards his side of the table.

"Uh, sir," Parker tries again.

"I'd be okay with it if you weren't so smug," Bucky says. He can't look at Parker or he'll start laughing. They do this nearly every week, he should learn by now.

"Just confidence, baby," Rhodey says. He starts stacking the chips. His pile is disproportionately large. It'd be depressing if it wasn't worth maybe $4.50, even after a couple hours of play. 

"Shit, I'm starting to understand why you and Stark are such good friends," Barton says. He knocks on the table to signal a new deal.  

Parker darts around the mess in the Swamp to try and get closer to his commanding officer. "Sir, it's time sensitive—" 

"Good-looking medical professionals," Rhodey interrupts, patting his chest. His tee shirt at least is regulation gray, unlike the classic rock bands Stark favours. 

"You're both huge dicks," Bucky says, laughing. He can't help it, he's directly across from Parker and has a front-row seat for his frustration. 

"Will you stop with the bullshit and let him _talk_?" Strange sits up suddenly from his cot on the other side of the tent, glaring at them all with his hair standing up on one side from sleep. "I realize you have medical degrees but you could at least pretend to deserve them?" 

"I also have a BA," Barton mutters half-heartedly, frowning down at the cards he just dealt himself. 

"In _journalism_ ,” Maximoff says, startling everyone by being awake. She lays her cards out, not noticing the pot's been emptied. "I have a full home."  

"Damn it," Barton says, because she's holding the two jacks he was looking for six hands ago. 

"I thought you were sleeping," Rhodey says. 

"I was sleeping," Strange says, already flopped back down on the cot with his earbuds back in, probably listening to flugelhorn something again. 

"I just need to say something!" Parker nearly yells, unusual enough that they do stop and listen. 

"Okay, floor's yours," Barton says as he leans back in his chair to take it in. 

"Thank you sir," Parker says, taking a few seconds to re-read his paper. "We got notice of inspection?"

"We have been inspected before, we'll be inspected again." Barton motions for Maximoff's cards and starts shuffling. "Is that really worth interrupting the game?"

"Fury still give you nightmares?" Bucky asks. "I'm sure the CO can get you an appointment to tell Sam all about that." 

"I sure can," Barton says, overtop of Parker's denying the nightmares. 

"He's bringing Captain America," Parker spits out, and even Strange sits up again. 

"Shit," Barton says, folding his cards and pushing away from the table. "Oh, shit." 

Maximoff gets up too, running her hands over her neatly-tied-back hair to make sure she's still in uniform. Barton tends to be relaxed about standards, allowing Stark's shirts and Bucky's less than regulation undercut, but not everyone chooses to get comfortable. 

Rhodey's packing up the cards, and Bucky hands his back with some slow confusion. "Who's Captain America?" 

"He's regular army," Rhodey says, "not a surgeon."

"So he's trying to make a bunch of surgeons jump through army hoops," Barton says, slipping his coat back on. "Officers meet in my office in fifteen, Parker?" 

"On it," Parker says and disappears back down the canvas hallway to find the other officers. 

"Captain America," Bucky says, shaking his head. "For the patriotism?" 

"Pisses red white and blue," Rhodey says. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and for the encouragement! 
> 
> Some description of medical trauma and medical procedure in this. Also, added a warning for OC death. I think these can be expected, considering the combat hospital setting, but please let me know if I can help with more specific tags.

Rhodey and Bucky are one of the last ones to arrive in Barton's quarters for the meeting, travel mugs of coffee in hand to try and sober up.

Even Strange made it, leaning back casually enough into Lang's shoulder that he must be half-asleep still.

Bucky slides into the space between Danvers and Wilson, up against one of the filing cabinets that line the walls of Barton's tent. After the fourth time they'd had to convert his office into a ward for unexpected patients, Barton had given in and simply put his desk next to his cot.

If Danvers is here, the need for perfection against the threat of Captain America's expectations must be real. She's their liaison from the nearby Air Force base, flying patients out to the hospital proper once they stabilize.

"Are we waiting on Stark?" Bucky asks her, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the aviators tucked into the neckline of her flightsuit. He looks haggard, hair gone wavy and hanging down over his bloodshot eyes. Maybe the meeting is a good idea. 

"Mmm," she says, focused on her watch. She's efficient and cool, but young enough that Bucky feels like he's visibly aging just standing next to her.

He's not the oldest one in here, but the shitstorm of Camp Bastion hangs on him like a couple extra years. He wouldn't say it's why he drinks, but, it's why he drinks.

Barton is focused on his own coffee cup, blazoned with the orange I for his alma mater. He’s blinking more than usual, like he’s trying to focus. 

He’s been partaking in the fount of living water too. They all drink during poker to pass the time between hands and because it usually doesn't matter.

Stark finally swans in, still in his scrubs and Nike sneakers from duty. He takes the chair left open in front of Barton's desk and picks up the coffee Rhodey left there for him.

"We are being inspected in forty-four hours," Barton says. "The inspection team will include Captain America. We need each of those hours to prepare."

Bucky looks at the others, seeing who stands up straighter—Maximoff, Rhodey, Wilson. Some of the others. 

It means everyone else—Strange, Stark, Bucky himself—either don't give a shit or don't have a clue. They aren't army by trade, not like the others, reservists brought in response to crisis and tragedy. They also still introduce themselves as doctors first, rank second.

"Great speech," Stark says. He's wearing his sunglasses even though this part of the tent city isn't exposed to daylight. "Inspiring."

"You'll be fine as long as everything is regulation," Danvers says, like she isn't listing each of their deviations in her head.

Stark: constantly out of uniform and mouthy af. Strange: hijacks the OR sound system and horrible notation. Bucky: non-regulation haircut and a still made from surgical equipment. Also, his non-regulation arm.

"He doesn't have a lot of sympathy for medical units, either," Rhodey says.

"I think he has less," Lang adds. He's newer here, still bright-eyed but with a definite taste for Gin Tuesdays, Gin Wednesdays, Gin Thursdays...

"So we'll give him a giant boner by how regulatory we are," Wilson says. "My nurses are some of the best."

"And no banter," Parker pipes up, and goes red when they all look at him. Bravely, he elaborates. "He especially finds banter against regulation."

Stark scowls at his mug. "How about I just stay under my cot until he's gone."

"I'm assigning teams to check our status against standards and correct," Barton says like he doesn't see the faces Stark pulls. "As officers, make sure we're to the letter. Parker, make sure the officers do their jobs."

Parker salutes, and hands out assignments and a list of regulations from his clipboard.

Bucky gets paired with Stark, charged with making sure supply and quarters are fit.

He takes another long swig from his mug to prepare for a couple of hours with a sober douchebag. He should probably be a near-sober douchebag. 

"Well, Stark?" Bucky says, thinking they can start with supply. It's been an efficient place since Wilson was first stationed here, better for the corpsmen to grab and go, but it's possible it's not regulation.

Bucky sighs.

"I'm still on duty, tinman," Stark says to Bucky, waving Parker off when he offers Stark the checklist.

Bucky takes it instead. It's an easy list, mostly confirming the layout in each tent still follows regulation and the number of things present matches what's quartermaster has issued.

He can probably start by himself in quarters, fill up his travel mug and then pretend to care about how many chairs they're actually allowed per capita.

It's just the scope that's scary. Thirty-two containers that, if they all hold up to the conditions Bucky lives in, will need a hell of a lot of work over the next forty hours.

He scans through the recommended configuration. Although it says there are no uniformity standards when it comes to quarters, there are expectations for cleanliness. It's the kind of vagueness Bucky has to expect to bite them in the ass, because given the history of the army, it will.

The majority of the corpsmen, the nurses, the soldiers themselves will know what quarters are supposed to look like, so Bucky figures he'll just have to tell them the inspection is coming.

And that they're required to have recycle bins.

*

It's 2300 by the time Bucky makes it back to the Swamp, falling face first down into his cot with his boots still on.

"Boots in bed are against regulation," Stark mutters into his own pillow. He'd made it out to  _ supervise _ shortly after Bucky had given up on telling soldiers of the impending inspection and was just yelling field day into open doorways so they'd take the hint to get their shit together.

"Your face is against regulation," Bucky tells him back. There's an aborted snore from the other side of the room, probably Rhodey. He'd spent his time in radiology and the lab, where the gap between army efficiency and actual efficiency is the most obvious. It's going to be hell if they get casualties during Captain America's visit, trying to remember where things are according to the army. 

"Do you think any of them will have recycle bins by tomorrow?" Stark asks, stuck on the same detail Bucky was for the tour.

"I don't think we even have one," Bucky says. He turns over into his back so he can try and get his boots off.

"Yes we do, we use it for laundry," Strange says. He's sitting up in bed with the light on, probably reading.

"Huh," Stark says, noisily shifting to look. "Why isn't it blue?"

Strange huffs a huge sigh, but doesn't dignify that with a response. He's next for post op, coming on to relieve Maximoff in the early hours.

"Like blue camo, even," Stark says.

Bucky toes his boots off, leaving them somewhere at the end of the cot. He's probably going to knock them to the ground during the night and wake himself up, but at this moment he doesn't care.

He finds a good spot on his right side, right hand curled against his metal elbow as a reminder he still has it, so he won't dream about the raid when he lost it.

The arm was built to detach when necessary, but since getting it Bucky's never found a good time to go without.

"Is it the rivalry, Navy uses blue camo?" Stark's still going on about, voice quieter as he mumbles more into his pillow.

Bucky must doze off but isn’t really asleep, because Parker's voice has him awake a few hours later without much trouble.

"What," Bucky hisses, resisting the urge to kick at Parker where he's leaning over the foot of his cot. There's two sets of snores still so he won't be getting shit from the others over interrupting beauty sleep.

"It's your patient, the, um, the critical one," Parker says.

Bucky's sitting up and swinging his legs off his cot while his brain fills in the rest: Dias is nineteen, PFC, stepped on an IED that left him a double leg amputee with extensive burns on his thighs and pelvis.  

He searches for his boots, remembers they were on his cot, and slams his hand into Parker's attempt to give them to him.

Kid must be able to see in the dark.

Bucky's been fighting against infection, trying to give Dias time. But the severity of the wounds, the scope of burnt tissue—they don't have the facilities here to treat burn victims but he's not stable enough to move.

Boots on, he stumbles after Parker to icu, trying to twist his shirt back into something more like a uniform.

The bright lights of the ward make his eyes water, but he finds Dias's bed without much trouble.

"How's he doing now," Bucky asks, scrubbing at his eyes with one hand.

"BP is dropping," Hogan says. He sounds offended, but when Bucky drops his hand to look at him, he just looks worried. They all hate it when one lets go but Hogan seems to take it personally.

"He's breathing normally?" Bucky searches for the carotid to check Dias's pulse. Fast and weak. He's cool to the touch too, despite the steady temperature of the icu and the fever he'd had last time Bucky had checked on him.

"No," Hogan says. "That's why I sent Parker for you."

"I think it's infection," Bucky says, reaching for an ear thermometer from the tray of instruments next to the bed. "Prep him, I want to take a look at his legs again."

Hogan nods and signals to a corpsman.

The wounds are still open, packed with gauze so it won't be too invasive to flush them again. IEDs cause horrific injuries, but it's the contaminants they're packed with that are the major concern.

Hogan lifts away the covering off the left leg. It looks good, red and clean, and so does the right.

Bucky grimaces, because this means the burns are infected. It's unfortunate but unsurprising. He came in packed with sand.

They still can't do much for it beyond keeping it clean and hoping for the best. He works with Hogan’s help, washing the area and layering on ointment to help it start healing. 

Dias is still pale and his stats aren’t much better. Bucky watches him breathe for a couple of minutes, thinking it doesn’t sound as laboured, but he still leaves instructions with Hogan to keep him updated.

It’s nearly 0700 when Bucky leaves post-op in the capable hands of Cho, thinking of heading to the mess for a cup of coffee and whatever they’re calling breakfast that day. 

He’s not tired enough to crawl back into bed. He’ll probably regret it later, when he has to check up on the barracks for the inspection.   

For now, he’s confronted with the too-yellow scrambled eggs and rubbery french toast strips on offer. One of Lang’s best staffers—and annoyingly, one of the ones that puts a strip of masking tape with his first name overtop of his name badge, so, Luis—shakes his head slowly when Bucky points at the french toast.

“No, no, no, man, you do not want to partake in that bullshit,” Luis says. “I recommend the eggs today, powdered miracles.”

“Sure.” Bucky holds out his tray, and Luis serves him a liberal portion. “And the regular toast?”

“A regular amount of terrible,” Luis says agreeably, and gives him four slices.

“Thanks,” Bucky says. He takes a few seconds to fix his coffee before searching for a space to sit without looking like he’s doing it. Most of the tables are filled with army grunts, and while Bucky isn’t averse to sharing space, he’s not in the mood. They’re loud and excitable, even at 0700.

Strange is alone at the end of one table, surrounded by a buffer of empty chairs. He has his headphones in and is clearly the best option, so Bucky sits.

The eggs are bland but warm, and the toast cold but savoury. It’s an okay trade-off, and Bucky surprises himself when he clears most of his plate. Four slices of toast are too much, especially when they ran out of individual jam packets four days ago.

Strange nods at him when Bucky gets up to get more coffee but makes no attempt to interact. Bucky brings him a refill too in thanks, and is about to sit back down when he feels someone come up behind him.

“Captain Barnes,” Parker says hesitantly, and Bucky knows why he’s here before he turns. “I’m so sorry, Lieutenant Hogan asked me to—”

“It’s fine, thanks, Parker,” Bucky says. He swigs the almost-too-hot coffee, and when he lowers the cup Parker’s still standing there.

“He asked me to tell you he was with him, at the end,” Parker says.

“Thanks,” Bucky says again, more genuinely. He clears his space, shoving the uneaten slice into the organic waste bin a little more aggressively than he means to.

Lots of people die here, some even before they get to camp. It shouldn't bother him this much each time, not like it does, but Bucky just hates losing.

It is, a loss of life, a loss of potential, and it hurts as bad over here as it did back in pediatrics in Manhattan. No one ever deserves it.

He has two months left here before he's transferred back to Germany for six months, then back to Morgan Stanley. He isn't ready for the real world, but at the same time he can't wait to be living somewhere that isn't a tent.

Bucky checks his watch again.

Fuck it, he thinks. Time for a drink.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for reading so far, and for sticking with me after such a long break! I got caught up in the SBB and neglected this entirely. With a few prods in the right direction, we're back in it.

The Swamp is blessedly quiet and dim. The ceiling light bulb is out but Bucky can find his way to the still just fine. He might even be alone, which makes drinking in the dark a little sadder but no less likely.

When he gets closer he sees that Stark is lying on his back on Rhodey's cot, fully clothed other than his bare feet. His nearly unworn combat boots are on the floor, probably the most regulation part of him.

"Where's Rhodey," Bucky asks, concentrating on pouring into his multi-purpose travel mug.

"Radiology?" Stark says to the ceiling of the tent. "The lab? He said something about inspections but I honestly didn't care about it."

“He didn’t keep you up with horror stories about failing? The spankings from Captain America when you're found wanting?” Bucky takes a sip. There’s a trace amount of coffee left in it, and while he doesn’t like the taste of it with gin, he still finishes it.

“Do I seem like a man to worry about rules,” Stark says, stretching his bare toes out to make the point.

Bucky moves to sit down on his own cot, rearranging the blankets so he doesn’t put boots on his sheet. “No, but he does.”

Stark waves a hand lazily. “I care in my own way.”

“Sure,” Bucky says. He sets his mug down on the floor next to his bed. “Do you care enough to run second inspections?”

“I have faith in the troops,” Stark says. “But in the interests of not having anyone lose their shit, probably.”  

“I’ll come with.” Bucky closes his eyes, pulling his elbows in close to his sides and his knees up to his chest. He won’t sleep like this, but he can do his best to stop thinking.

“I hope you don’t mean right now,” Stark says.

There’s silence, then the noisy sound of someone shifting around on the cot’s vinyl surface, Stark trying to look at Bucky.

“Okay, good, you don’t.”

“No I do not,” Bucky says. He swallows. “Dias died this morning.”

"Shit, man, I'm sorry," Stark says, sounding sincere. He's looking but stays silent, and Bucky can stand it for a good thirty seconds before he turns abruptly to give Stark his back. Whether he keeps staring, Bucky doesn't know.

"At the end, I don't think he was alone. Hogan was with him," Bucky says eventually.

"He's a good—did you know his nickname's Happy," Stark says. "Always thought he'd be better off in a hospice than combat."

"Mmm," Bucky agrees, searching on the floor for his mug. It's nearing empty, so he finds his way to his feet to refill. "You want to get started early?"

"Can't let you drink alone," Stark says, so Bucky pours him one too.

There's always a chance of incoming wounded, from scheduled strikes, accidents or IEDs. Bucky drinks often but in low quantities because if he waited for actual, true down time, he'd never taste a drop.

It's going to be a problem when he's back in civvy paradise, but for now, he's surviving.

"I should have eaten breakfast," Stark grumbles, staring into the bottom of his cup. "Isn't it French toast day?"

Bucky shakes his head. "Heard today's miracle was powdered eggs."

Stark makes a face. "Either way this is going to hit me hard."

"You'll make inspections more interesting," Bucky says, but means entertaining. Stark may just continue with part two of his recycling bin rant with some of the more impressionable PFCs, but it'll be worth it.

"Some kind of bullshit, huh," Stark says. "How good at the army are we expected to be? We're just doctors."

"In eight months, I'll just be a doctor," Bucky says. "Until then, the Army will argue I'm a captain."

Snorting, Stark flops back down on his back. He might spill on Rhodey's cot but he'd never confess. In the dry air, it should evaporate quickly anyway.

"So until then, Captain Barnes," Stark says, "enjoy drinking on the job. I guarantee you won't be on the outside if you want to keep your license."

Bucky raises his cup in a toast. "This is damage control. I don't drink and debride."

"Clever," Stark says a bit nastily. Bucky thinks he should probably get some food into Stark before he devolves into a complete asshole.

"Up, food," Bucky says, getting to his feet to swat encouragingly at Stark's legs. "I'm sure Corporal, um, Luis can scrounge you something in the mess."

"What I wouldn't give for a good American cheeseburger," Stark mutters, but does get up when the paging system goes off.

Bucky throws back the last mouthful of his drink before it can tell them anything.

"Not drinking on the job by a technicality," Stark says, and salutes his own glass in the air before he sets it down on Rhodey's foot locker to a chorus of incoming wounded.

Their individual pagers go off next with their respective calls to duty but there are no details on the patients, not yet.

Stark takes a few seconds to find and put on clean socks (Rhodey's) while Bucky reluctantly laces his boots back up. They'll have to change into scrubs before surgery but he doesn't want to blow a boot on the way to pre-op.

They pass Parker on the way to the emergency medical end of tent city. Parker hands Stark a sandwich and Bucky orange juice.

"Angel," Stark tells him, and then they separate. Stark is headed to scrub up for surgery for the first red tags while Bucky will join Maximoff on triage.

There are two tables with patients when he steps through the door, with corpsmen bringing more in.

"Truck hit by IED in the road," Maximoff says from where she's already kneeling beside a blood soaked sergeant. "Mix of severity."

"Sure," Bucky says, and takes in the other patient. His left side is torn up, with what looks like shrapnel peeking through the wound. Nothing's spurting, so he doesn't need a tourniquet before marking him as red: serious, immediate attention.

It always seems like a mess at first, before it clears back into order. Overwhelming in a way that's similar to emergency rooms stateside: eight kinds of noise, too many bodies in too small a space, smells so heavy in the air he can taste them.

They've got enough beds to triage ten patients at a time, and the three ORs can fit five patients across. Bucky has only seen it once where patients came in so fast they had to keep the green tags on the floor just to have enough room.

The next one's leg is mangled but it looks redeemable. If they get it in time, if they clean it enough, if it doesn't get infected. He gets a yellow tag, because it's a single limb and the bleeding is slow.

The soldier grabs Bucky's arm—the left one—and goes even paler.

"Where am I," he asks.

"Forward support medical," Bucky says and shifts to look more carefully at the rest of the soldier for unexplained blood loss. The guy's fingers tighten on his arm so he can't go far.

"We're taking care of you," Bucky says, lifting the fabric around the wound so he can cut it away to prep him for surgery. He doesn't like the look of the skin around the knee, pale and unresponsive.

"Thanks," the guy says, closing his eyes and going so still, Bucky has to check for a pulse. He's faint but steady, and gets upgraded to a red tag before Bucky moves on. He's taken to an OR before Bucky's at the next table.

The strangest thing about an IED hit is the randomness of injury. It looks like it struck this group from the left, going by the next two he looks at (red and yellow, respectively) but it's only a guess.

"I'm going in," Maximoff says, once they have the seven patients coming in triaged and marked.

"Sure," Bucky says, going to wash up before doing the same.

The triage tent is a mess but empty of urgent cases. Then a corpsman brings in one more, mobile but limping. He recognizes her as a driver from their usual supply truck.

"Jones, I didn't know you missed me this much," Bucky says, helping the corpsman lift her to a table. She's tall but skinny, and it doesn't take much to get her up.

"Always," she says through gritted teeth. She looks to where her pant leg is torn up but still shoved into the top of her combat boot. "Tell me it's not too bad."

"It's not too bad, of what I've seen," he says obediently.

"It's my own damn fault," Jones says. "Should have seen the mess on the road. It was suspicious."

Bucky pushes at her shoulders until she takes the hint and lies down. She looks uncomfortable, frowning up at the ceiling of the tent.

"Can't see the future," he tells her, and cuts the fabric of her uniform away from her knee. "And stop with the hero complex. You aren't Superman."

"Better than," Jones says, and makes a fist when he gestures to test her reflexes. "Got here as fast as I could."

"You drove?" Bucky asks. There are a good seven bodies here thanks to her, if so.

"Seemed better than waiting for a bird when we'd already been attacked once." Jones winces when Bucky lifts the fabric away from her bloody leg. It's just from the impact in the truck, skin abraded instead of torn or punctured.

"You're green class," Bucky says, patting her shoulder. "You can wait here with the others."

Jones nods, pushing herself up on her elbows. "What, not gonna get me some hardware like yours?"

"Won't need it, I'll take care of you myself," Bucky says and holds up his metal fingers as proof. "Got the steadiest hand in this country."

She gives him a strained smile that Bucky tells himself is from physical pain, not his joke, and goes to scrub up.

He's probably going to be paired up in the OR with Barton at this rate, sentenced to a couple of hours of sutures to a country music soundtrack.

When he gets to OR 3, it's a mishmash of traditional blue and camo scrubs. Camo is regulation but blue came in from supply, so they make do.

"Here," Strange says when he sees Bucky step through.

He's working on a double amputation. The patient's left arm and leg are just gone.

Bucky can't tell if it's the same guy he tagged outside, but comes up to the table all the same. The right arm's been torn up pretty badly too, metal shrapnel and foreign material salting the wounds.

"I need you to do that," Strange says to the patient's legs, and then waves to the mangled arm, "so I can do this."

"Got it," Bucky says, and sets to work.

Strange is one of the best neurosurgeons in the country. It’s an overused joke, since he’s also the only one. Bucky’s willing to bet it’ll hold out when Strange goes back stateside, especially after seeing what he’s managed to salvage of the guy’s arm. 

After surgery, Bucky gets time for a lukewarm shower before he takes his turn in post-op. His hair drips down the collar of a fresh pair of scrubs, this time camo on camo. 

He’s making notes in a patient’s chart when Strange’s patient stirs. He tugs against the resistance of the strapping on his arm, not strong enough to do more than an awkward sway. 

It’s enough that Bucky gets up, leaning into the soldier’s eyeline as he searches the ceiling for answers. 

“Hey, private,” Bucky says, putting a hand on the guy’s forehead to ground him. It’s his flesh hand, but the guy still stiffens. “Cooper, right?” 

“Sir,” Cooper says. He focuses on Bucky’s face for a long second, then looking over the scrubs. He frowns when he gets to Bucky’s metal arm. “What happened?” 

Bucky chooses to believe Cooper’s asking about Bucky’s prosthetic, not his own injuries. He’s doped up, chances are he hasn’t noticed. 

“Camp Bastion,” Bucky says, moving his hand away from Cooper’s forehead. He stays bent over him to give him something to look at. 

“You were there for that?” Cooper asks. He doesn’t look old enough to have been around since then, but maybe his shaved head hides signs of gray. “But you’re a doc, doc.” 

“I was sent there for routine testing of the troops, the turn and cough bullshit,” Bucky says. He raises his hand so Cooper can see it, wiggling the fingers. “Got caught in the raid. Command fuckup cost me my tennis swing.” 

“What kind of tennis do you do here,” Cooper says. 

“Nothing anymore, that’s the point,” Bucky says. He looks to Cooper’s remaining arm, packed with gauze and left open to reduce infection. “Or did you mean what happened to you?”

“The truck got hit,” Cooper says slowly. With the blankets packed around his missing extremities, he can't see what he's lost. There's a lot of chatter, though, anything that Cooper might have overheard. “We made it?”

“All of you,” Bucky says, hoping that won't change. “You were hit too.”

“How bad.” Cooper looks to the ceiling, away from Bucky. 

“Left side, leg and arm.” Bucky taps his own, just above the elbow. “Be some scarring.” 

“Okay,” Cooper says quietly. There's a tension in his jaw when he thinks on it. 

“You feeling anything?” 

Cooper frowns, and Bucky can see the moment the fog clears enough to register pain. “Hurts, I guess.” 

“That I can help with,” Bucky says. He consults the chart and makes a note to bump up the dosage. Cooper’s passed out again, having expended his energy, but Wilson’s there as soon as Bucky steps away. 

“Thanks,” Bucky says, and carefully skirts around the rest of the beds to get air. It’s an easy story to tell now, with a custom-built replacement arm, but he still relives awful memories. The sudden knowledge that his career was over, the uncertainty of what he’d do next, and the surprise rescue by one Tony Stark, MD, PhD, bioengineer. 

He stops near the foot of an empty bed, curling his right hand into a fist. It's no use wishing it didn't happen. 

“You’re good with people,” Jones says, from three beds over. She’s in the area unofficially kept for minor cases. If the ward was full, she’d be put up in regular quarters with the rest of the base. 

“Sure,” Bucky says. He shakes off the melancholy and steps to her side instead. He goes off duty soon, just enough time to squeeze a few hours of sleep before the inspection. 

“Don't tell me you were a therapist, before,” Jones says warningly, maybe half-serious. 

“Me, no. Therapists stay in Germany, don't they?” Bucky checks her wound but everything looks like it should. Clean enough, but she'll be here to observe that nothing's snuck in. IEDs were dirty things. 

“Then what?” Jones tolerates his prodding for a couple minutes longer than Bucky expected, then jerks her leg away under his hand. 

“Peds,” Bucky says. “Pediatrics. Gotta get good talking to people when they don't talk for themselves.”

“They sent a baby doctor to the war?” Jones flops back against the cot dramatically and looks to the ceiling. “Little eight pound baby Jesus, deliver us.”

“Have you seen you, you're all babies,” Bucky says, then catches sight of Rhodes coming in for his duty. “Rest up, you'll get the all clear once that's scanned up.”

“Sure thing, Captain,” Jones says with a sloppy salute. 

Bucky signs out of the register to hand it over to Rhodey. His mind’s already off duty, but Jones’s use of rank reminds him of captain america’s looming visit. 

It's tempting, but he doesn't fill his travel mug and head for a last minute inspection. He doesn't drink at all, crashing face-first into his cot. 

His boots come off as an afterthought. 


	4. Chapter 4

Morning comes too early, even without a hangover. By 0740, the officers available are in what passes for formation on the yard. 

Stark’s gnawing on a knuckle, lost in thought as he stands in wait. 

“No coffee today?” Bucky asks, taking a sip from his own mug as he slides into place beside him. Rhodey’s still on duty, and Stark looks out of place without him. 

“Didn’t dare,” Stark says, shaking off the mood and looking at Bucky. “You did?” 

“Just coffee,” Bucky says with a shrug. “You worried about the recycle bins?” 

“I dreamt about them last night.” Stark tips his head back to glare into the already-hot sun. His sunglasses have pink lenses. “They’re fine, right?” 

“Guess so,” Bucky says. “Do those even do anything?” 

“What,” Stark says, bringing a hand up to tap at the frames. “These? They cut out the UV rays so it’s better than traditional tints.” 

“Do you mean regulation,” Bucky says. His sunglasses are the modified goggle type, army issue. Technically they shouldn’t have any cover during formation, but given the stupid ass sun, Barton okayed them. 

“Here,” Stark says, pulling them off his face and holding them out. Bucky shoves his mug into his pants pocket so he can make the swap. Stark puts the regulation pair on, making a face that’s surprisingly clear. 

“Not bad,” Bucky says, looking over the compound and then up to the sky. The pink colour does help, reducing the intensity of tone and cutting a substantial amount of glare. They honestly feel like no tint at all. 

“I made the suggestion,” Stark says. It’s nothing good, regardless of how the army turned him down. Like when he’d tried to claim a Humvee as back pay. Stark doesn’t take rejection well. 

“Well,” Bucky starts, but forgets what he’s going to say when he sees Parker stiffen at the front of formation. He’s got a sixth sense when shit is going to happen, always a few steps ahead of Barton. 

“What’s up, junior,” Stark calls out, but Parker waves him off. He’s focused on the dustup of sand coming from the far end of the compound. 

“Attention, I guess,” Lang mutters, and they all fall in as best they remember. 

Barton’s speaking with an imposing black man with an eyepatch—Colonel Fury, Bucky remembers. Technically the head of inspections, the one to let Captain America off his leash. 

Bucky realizes too late he still has Stark’s glasses on and a mug in his pocket. The sunglasses do give him a great view of the ridiculously jacked guy following behind, flanked by two female officers on either side. 

“Uh, attention,” Barton says, once they drift to a stop in front of them. Their lines are awful, and Bucky has to watch Maximoff in front of him to remember the right way to hold his hands. The metal hand brushes against his mug with an audible clink. “Colonel Fury, may I present forward support medical.” 

Fury looks them over, gaze snagging on Bucky before continuing on. Stark he passes right over, of course. He nods once, then tilts his head to the side so that big, blond and disapproving steps forward.

The sun glints off the US insignia on his collar. This must be Captain America, the prime example of military efficiency. He looks halfway familiar, like maybe Bucky’s seen him before. 

He scans them more thoroughly than Fury had. Whether the scowl on his face is from noticing their flaws or RBF, it gets worse when he makes eye contact with Bucky through the pink lenses. 

Captain America is smoking hot, Bucky realizes, clenching his ass cheeks as he tries not to react. Maybe even because of the attitude. 

“Do all of your officers ignore regulations,” Rogers says, turning away from them dismissively. It rankles. “Or just that one?” 

“Those are the docs,” Barton answers, but his attention’s on Fury. “Reserves, not regular army. Doctors.” 

“Are there different rules for your help,” Captain America says, kind of shitty, and Bucky recognizes him with a jolt. 

The jawline, the look of absolute superiority. That’s little Stevie Rogers to a t. They’d gone to high school together, travelled in some of the same circles. Bucky wonders if Rogers remembers him. 

“Well, as CO, I allow sunglasses outdoors. Because it’s the desert and I’d prefer not to have blind surgeons removing shrapnel,” Barton says evenly. He doesn’t even try to look past Fury’s bulk to Rogers’s. “Unless you’d like to contradict my orders, Captain.” 

“Not at all, Lieutenant Colonel,” Rogers says. His looks says the opposite. “I’d appreciate seeing a list of any other contravening orders you have.” 

Barton smiles with teeth. “Parker will have a list of  _ superseding _ commands in my quarters.”

“Not your office?” Rogers flattens his lips. It’s not against regulation, though, as long as files are backed up correctly. And Parker’s a damned good clerk. 

“Efficiency,” Barton says. “My quarters are the office.” 

Rogers opens his mouth to say something, but Fury steps forward to curb it. 

“After you, then,” Fury says to Barton, his glare nearly commanding Rogers to heel. Rogers does a perfect about face, but no one relaxes until the inspection team’s gone from sight. 

There’s no official command, but they all manage to step out of attention in the same moment anyway. 

“Shit,” Stark says, dragging it into multiple syllables. 

“Anyone else feeling like all that prep we didn't was so not enough?” Lang says, covering his face with his hands. “I think there's ketchup in places ketchup should not be.”

Bucky opens his mouth to agree, then closes it again. He hands back Stark’s sunglasses. 

“Drink?” Stark asks the group as a whole, shoving the sunglasses into his pocket. “Anyone, everyone?” 

“We go on rounds soon,” Wilson says, but it’s not a no. 

“Me,” Maximoff says. She looks at Stark steadily. “I go on rounds at two, and I don’t want to think about what’s going to happen then.” 

“I’m on in four,” Bucky says. 

“So more time to stop thinking,” Stark says, waggling his eyebrows above the pink sunglasses. 

“We should dial it back,” Wilson says. He’s not looking at anyone in particular, but Bucky still feels it, feels the rise of something nasty in response. “It’s one thing to have a drink and surprise, surgery, but this is less excusable.”

“I don’t need an excuse,” Bucky says. “You took the same biochem we did. One drink, one hour. Even Maximoff would be clear by then.”

Wilson rolls his eyes but keeps his mouth shut. He stays behind with some of his staff, and Bucky can let his shoulders relax once they reach the shaded canvas hallways of tent city. 

It’s going to be a problem when he gets stateside, but for now, Bucky lets Stark pour him exactly one unit into a mug. 

Lang got called out to the motor pool before they made it to the Swamp, but somewhere along Strange falls in. 

It makes enough for poker. They end up with a drink each in coffee mugs, nursing them through a couple hands. 

Bucky strips off his uniform jacket between deal four and five, joining the others in their regulation gray shirts. Even Stark’s toeing the line today with a more sedate version of Led Zeppelin’s zeppelin, gray on gray. 

“How’s the arm, tinman,” Stark asks as he deals, aiming the question at Bucky. 

The arm is what it is, but Bucky knows Stark is legitimately the interested in the mechanics than how Bucky feels about it. 

Bucky shrugs with his left shoulder. “Sand’s still a problem, but I figure that’s everyone’s problem until reassignment.”

“Or home,”  Maximoff says. She rearranges her cards and looks over at him, a soft expression on her face. She’s career army, but doesn’t care when he and Stark inevitably bitch about being here. “You’re allowed to say home.” 

“No place like it,” Stark says absently, attention on his cards. “You transferring to Metro when you get back?”

“You know my heart belongs to Morgan Stanley,” Bucky says. “Besides, won’t you and Strange be running that place?”

“What?” Strange says, looking up from his hand.  

“Home, Metro General, etcetera,” Stark says. “And no. I refuse to hand out anymore band-aids after this. I’m going straight back to being a billionaire.”  

“Classy.” Strange snorts. He’s no prince himself, apparently a terror when he’s forceps-deep in someone’s brain. But he has a point. If Stark can save lives, there’s some obligation to do it.

“And what exactly does a billionaire do,” Bucky says, and folds. His hands have been shit all afternoon. 

“Drink better booze,” Strange offers, and discards two cards to take a chance on something better. 

“Drive fast cars and date supermodels,” Maximoff says. She holds her hand. 

“Bioengineer better arms and legs,” Stark says, and raises. “You assholes.” 

“Yeah, we’re the terrible ones here,” Bucky says. “Trying to save lives, how inconsiderate.”

“Don’t even start,” Maximoff warns him, and calls when the round makes it her way. 

“Sorry,” Bucky says, standing up to stretch out his shoulders and arms. There’s a gritty feel to the shift in his wrist that he’s going to have to take a look at. He might manage to clear it when he preps for rounds. The sinks in preop have great water pressure, and the waterpik supply appropriated from some colonel has been helpful in both prep and maintenance. 

Maximoff wins the hand again and the two dollar pot, and waves off Strange when he goes to deal the next hand. 

“I need a nap before rounds,” she says, rubbing at one eye with the pad of her finger. “Barnes?”

“Should, but probably won’t,” he says. There’s still time before he’s expected, even if he’s planning on going in early to see how Cooper and Jones are doing. 

“Think about the team, rude,” Stark says. He sits back in his chair, rubbing at his jaw. He picks up his cards when Strange finishes dealing. 

There’s a shuffling commotion down the canvas hallway, then a violent flapping just outside the tent. Parker bursts in, nearly tripping over the tent’s threshold. 

“Incoming,” Parker says, out of breath. 

They all get to their feet, Bucky checking his pager for the missed signal to surgery. 

There’s nothing but Parker’s elaborate and confusing miming before Captain America’s ducking his head on the way into the tent. He’s not alone, accompanied by the redheaded woman from their arrival. 

“Tent 5W-MP, officer class,” Parker says, still breathless. “Medical personnel.” 

“I see, thank you, Private,” she says. She’s professional in a way that’s unfamiliar around here, hair in a neat bun Bucky could only dream of. 

“You’re, ah, welcome, Lieutenant Romanoff,” Parker says, face aflame.

Romanoff nods and steps into the tent proper, clasping her hands behind her back. Her expression is carefully neutral as she takes in the chaos of the Swamp. Most damning is the still standing on the table in Stark’s workshop at the back of the tent. 

Rogers is standing by the doorway, hands on his hips. He looks faintly disgusted by them all, but he’s letting Romanoff take the lead. Bucky keeps an eye on him anyway. 

“These are your reserves?” Romanoff asks. 

“Not Maximoff, she’s normal,” Parker says, then clears his throat awkwardly. “I mean, regular army. But, yes, Captains Stark, Strange and Barnes.”

“I’m just fraternizing, Lieutenant,” Maximoff says, and raises a hand in a salute. “Captain Wanda Maximoff.” 

“Fraternizing?” Captain Amer—Rogers repeats. He holds his position back against the entrance wall, taking in the tent at large. His eyes skip over Bucky like he doesn’t even see him. After this morning, it should feel like a relief, but it doesn’t.  

“We’re all officers, don’t you worry,” Stark says. He stands up a little straighter when Romanoff looks at him, even though he outranks her. It’s not exactly a sign of respect, but Bucky isn’t sure what else to call it. 

“I’d be more concerned about the other pen gambling and drinking,” Romanoff says. She’s obviously noticed their off duty activities. 

“What drinking,” Stark says, and in one motion, they all drain their cups.

There’s nothing alcoholic left in Bucky’s, but he makes a show of it all the same. 

“And the gambling?” Romanoff looks at them steadily. 

“We’re all officers here,” Stark says, gesturing to the players still standing around the table. “I believe regulations state it’s only an issue between officers and enlisted.” 

“Technically that regulation also precludes NCOs from participating,” Rogers says to Romanoff. 

Bucky takes the opportunity to mouth  _ what the fuck _ at Stark for his sudden interest in the rules. 

Stark shrugs. “I did some reading.” 

“You’re an expert on regulations,” Rogers says. He fixes his eyes on Stark. “You think that’s going to help?”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Stark says. “Like I could tell you that AR-1-201 frowns on inspection redundancies, and since we were scheduled for 1700, I could ask what brings you here.” 

“Unofficial reunion,” Romanoff says. She looks at Bucky then, making him freeze. “I was at Bastion when you were, do you remember?” 

Wordless, Bucky shakes his head. Her focus makes him uncomfortable. 

“Too bad, you were...efficient,” Romanoff says lightly. 

“Even a stopped clock,” Bucky says, then clears his throat. 

Romanoff gives him a look that says she sees through his bullshit, but turns to Stark without further comment. “What’s the mess at the back?” 

Shifting uneasily at the attention, Bucky draws a little further behind Strange. Rogers’s attention is on Romanoff, who’s taking in Stark’s claims they’re developing transfusion technologies with a cool expression.  

“Shouldn’t medical equipment be in the medical ward?” Rogers asks, maybe taking in Bucky’s metal hand with it. 

Bucky’s used to that kind of reaction, people thinking he’s not as good because he’s not completely organic, but today he just doesn’t have time for this shit. 

“This is a hospital,” Bucky says, shoving his metal hand in his pocket and gesturing with his right. He’s still holding his cup. That’s probably against a regulation. “Medical equipment is everywhere.” 

Stark clears his throat, eyes dancing, but Bucky doesn’t stop. He has to go relieve Rhodey in the lab. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who are sticking with this journey - this is a guilty pleasure write for me so I'm glad you're with me!

Bucky’s blessedly alone with actual medical staff for forty minutes before the brass finds him. It’s only Barton, but Bucky expects the rest of the inspection team isn’t that far behind. 

“You get around,” Barton says quietly, when he comes up beside Bucky’s chair. Cooper’s asleep, looking small in the cot with so much of him covered in gauze. 

“Me,” Bucky says, making a note on Cooper’s chart. His med intake levels are marked high for someone who’s too unconscious to complain. It’s earlier than he’d like to go back in to debride the wounds, but he’s afraid they missed something. Better to go in than risk an infection. 

“I heard you met the captain,” Barton says. “On the surprise inspection.” 

“That was unofficial,” Bucky says. He stands to hang the chart back up and runs through the list of supplies he’d need to go over Cooper’s arm and leg again. Maximoff is charting on the other side of post-op, and she’s good with this kind of care. “Wasn’t it?” 

“I don’t even fucking know,” Barton says, taking Bucky’s abandoned chair. “Nat—Romanoff says he’s gotten better over the years under Fury, but I do not enjoy this pissing contest.” 

“Nat, eh,” Bucky says. He keeps his tone flat, but Barton still kicks at the back of his knee. 

“We worked together,” Barton says easily. “You ready to be observed on rounds?” 

“I decline,” Bucky says, and heads to grab Maximoff to check out Cooper’s right side. 

She’s dozing on the desk when he steps in. Bucky hates to wake her, but he wants to get into the task before Rogers arrives to shit on this part of his day too. 

Hogan’s the on-call, so they head to the single OR for the procedure. Everything’s a healthy colour when they peel back the cover, showing signs of improvement. 

Bucky presses gently against Cooper’s arm to feel for anything foreign, Maximoff making a mumbling joke about Bucky’s mismatched surgical gloves. He’s double-gloved on his right for surgery, but on the left he just wears the lime green underglove to give him more tactility. 

The joke’s as tired as Maximoff is, but he lets her have it. Hogan doesn’t comment, just hands Bucky the forceps to poke at a lump that turns out to be nothing. 

Cooper’s arm is clear, so they shift the operation to his leg. Maximoff stays at the arm to re-secure it. There’s a reason they don’t wrap until they’re sure. 

“I wish we had Stark’s tool, the googles,” Maximoff says. 

“Goggles,” Bucky corrects absently. Something doesn’t feel right in Cooper’s leg, right around the knee. It was torn up from the blast, but this feels different. Like something’s shifted since the last time Bucky operated on it. “Wait, what goggles?” 

“These things,” Maximoff says, raising her hands towards her face and gesturing. With years of experience, she does it without going near her mask or cap. “They can see things.” 

“Metal, sure, but these assholes pack it with whatever’s on hand,” Bucky says. He’s seen shrapnel come from plastic or wood, even contaminants from dirty diapers. Most of the concern here is metal or dirt and sand, but it doesn’t mean it’s any easier to find. 

“His see it all,” Maximoff says, waggling her fingers. “Makes searching much easier.”  

“Captain Maximoff, I’d suggest you keep your hands sterile and on the patient,” someone says from behind them. Rogers. “Inexperience is no excuse for sloppiness.” 

Maximoff’s eyes go wide, muttering an apology and lowering her hands to return to her work.

“You should scrub before you touch an open wound,” Rogers says angrily, and Maximoff nearly flees to re-sterilize. 

Bucky can feel his back go up but shakes his head when Hogan opens his mouth to respond. He stays focused on his work but lets himself snarl underneath his mask. “Are you sterile?” 

“I’m sterile,” Rogers confirms. “I wanted to see why the OR was in use when there was no incoming signal for casualties.” 

“Ta-fucking-da,” Bucky mutters under his breath and holds his hand out for Hogan to trade his forceps for finer ones. There’s definitely a piece near bone and he doesn’t want to aggravate the site more than he has to. 

“What was that, Captain?” Rogers says. He’s close, suddenly, right behind where Bucky’s crouched over the table. He uses his size to intimidate, a move so common around here no one bothers with it. 

Bucky doesn’t answer, but Rogers doesn’t seem to care. He steps around the table to view the work from the other side. 

“This looks like non-essential surgery,” he says, blinking a few times as he takes in the neatly covered stumps on Cooper’s other side. His eyelashes are unfairly long, but the mask at least covers the rest of his face. 

Gritting his teeth, Bucky presses in to grab the edge of the fragment. It’s uneven and doesn’t want to move. “Patient has unexpected levels of pain after the initial surgery. We’re checking for contaminants that may be causing discomfort before they develop infection.” 

Rogers eyes Bucky’s face and then looks back at Cooper. There’s something about his expression that’s irritating, different than the clinical look medical staff give patients. He’s assessing, making Bucky absurdly protective. 

“Couldn’t it be the pain of losing an arm and a leg?” Rogers asks, tone inquiring, almost reasonable. 

Almost, because Bucky knows Rogers thinks he has the answer. It’s more likely that he’s being a dick asking questions to interrupt an operation he obviously doesn’t see the need for. Army officers never get the way doctors work. Even the ones in the army proper, doctor captains like Maximoff. She has a mind for medicine first, the army second. It’s what makes her so good here, treating the entire base like a trauma ward. 

“While that pain is disconcerting, it’s not overwhelming,” Bucky says. He has the shard for a second, but it’s almost like it softens under the tip of the forceps. He frowns in concentration, shifting alongside the shard for a longer end. “The lack of nerves means it’s generally an ache over the type of pain requiring the medication levels our patient has been requesting.”

“That’s subjective,” Rogers says. 

Bucky doesn’t look up but takes a breath, ready to explain that he knows the type of pain Cooper’s dealing with because he’s a doctor. 

Then Rogers looks more closely at what Bucky and Hogan are doing to Cooper’s thigh, noticing Bucky’s mismatched gloves. “You aren’t following the recommended gloving procedures. Why?”

“These are my gloves,” Bucky says, breathing out slowly through his mouth. He adjusts his grip on the forceps and goes in again, hates to think of what the thing is. “I’m gloved.”

“Not according to standards,” Rogers says, pointing with one of his own gloved hands. Blue exam grade, since he’s not actually coming in contact with the patient. Bucky shouldn’t be surprised that Rogers knows the difference. “Do you have a reason?”

Bucky does, because his metal hand doesn’t need the protection of the second glove. It just needs to be sterilized and he’s ready to work, but the glove helps keep it clean between patients. 

But he doesn’t owe Rogers that answer, so he just shifts his grip with the forceps and finally has the shard in his grasp. 

“Well?” Rogers asks, and Bucky chances a glance up. Before, Stevie Rogers was a rude little shit who thought he knew best about everything. Sure, he was right about the basketball team, but there were plenty of times where he’d made it worse. It’d be reassuring that he hasn’t changed, except for how he’s trying to ride Bucky’s ass right now. 

Bucky blinks at him slowly, then back down at his work. “Can you not do this while I’m inside someone’s leg?” 

“As far as I can tell, you don’t have a good reason to be,” Rogers says. 

“You’re not a fucking doctor, so how about you get the fuck out of my OR,” Bucky says, tugging the piece free of Cooper’s leg and dropping the forceps into the tray at his right with a clatter. 

Hogan hands him the saline injection to flush the wound wordlessly. 

When Bucky looks up again, Rogers is staring at him, eyes wide. Startled, maybe angry, Bucky can’t be sure. 

“Fine,” Rogers says simply, and leaves. 

Bucky’s flesh hand trembles around the syringe, so Hogan slips his hand around Bucky’s to take over. 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, taking both his hands away from Cooper’s leg and knocking into the tray with the piece of wood—of course it was a piece of wood—standing next to him. 

“Adrenaline,” Hogan says, tilting his head to the orange juice boxes stacked inside each OR. “You’ll be alright.” 

“Sure,” Bucky says, stripping off his gloves before he picks up the box. He slides the straw in and then under his mask until he can drink. 

Maximoff comes back in then, looking over her shoulder. “What’d you do?” 

Bucky pulls the straw out of his mouth. “I was trying to perform surgery.” 

“He ran out of here like,” Maximoff says, gesturing to her own face. “All red.” 

“The good captain was questioning the procedure,” Hogan says, cleaning the wound and stepping back for Maximoff to inspect. She picks up the fine forceps to feel for anything foreign, then nods to him after it comes back clean. 

“I lost my cool,” Bucky says, wishing he hadn’t. It’ll be harder for him now, whether or not Rogers remembers him at all or not. 

“Well, this is no place for conversations,” Maximoff says, letting Hogan wrap the wound up again. She sets the tools down and nods to the scrub room. Bucky drains the orange juice and then follows, thanking Hogan for his help as they leave. 

They shed their gowns, booties, and caps, Bucky making sure to toss the one glove he still has on into the bin. 

“Barnes,” Maximoff says, putting a hand to Bucky’s metal arm as he makes to leave. “He was snooping, you told him to stop. That’s all there is to it.” 

“Right,” Bucky says, smiling for her sake and letting it fall when he heads back to the post-op ward to finish on rounds. 

He’s sitting with Jones when Barton comes back with Fury in tow, getting to his feet when he sees Barton scanning the ward. 

“Barnes,” Barton says, crazy eyes tempered a bit by the smirk on his face. “You on duty?” 

“Yes,” Bucky says, then tags on a “sir” when Fury levels him with a measuring look. “Stark’s on next.” 

“Perfect,” Barton says. “Because I don't want anyone to try and follow the chaos that is Tony Stark’s rounds, we’ll join you.” 

“I’ve, uh,” Bucky says, then falters when he sees Rogers, Romanoff, and Hill are joining them. “Been through rounds. Sir.” 

“Pretend for me,” Barton says, and then falls in beside Bucky when he does an about-face to the duty desk. He leans in, wrapping one hand in the sleeve of Bucky’s lab coat. “Just walk us through it, one patient. Jones, maybe. She’s pleasant.” 

Bucky snorts, but straightens his shoulders when they reach their destination. He speaks directly to Fury, telling him about the duty desk, the nurses’ station, where they keep the supplies and the protocol for charting. 

At the back, Rogers looks thoughtful but keeps his mouth shut. It’s a relief, enough that when Fury asks a few questions about their inventory system Bucky sounds like he knows what he’s talking about. 

Before he can relax too much, Barton suggests he bring them through a sample rounding. He has to push through the group of them to lead them to a willing patient—Jones, if she’s in a good enough mood. He can feel the heat of Rogers’s eyes on his face, but he ignores him in favour of asking Jones if she’d mind. 

“Anything for you, doc,” she drawls, pushing herself up to a sitting position with her elbows. It drags the blankets up her leg a bit, so Bucky leans in to adjust the pillows behind her head and then the blankets. 

“I thought that was the nurse’s job, making the beds,” Jones says, settling her hands in her lap and looking like the model of a good patient. 

Bucky knows better. “We all pitch in where needed,” he says, and raises his eyebrows at her in a half-hearted threat. He turns to the group, getting a flashback to his residency at Morgan Stanley. Shaking it off, he slides his hands into his coat pockets and chooses Romanoff as his audience this time. “Patient is Corporal Jones, driver of a convoy that was hit with an IED. Wounds presented as abrasions from the force of the explosion.”

He shifts away from Romanoff’s steady look to gesture at the whiteboard hanging up behind Jones’s head, then at the clipboard hanging beside. “We keep the past six hours up, with full detail in the charts.”

“The last time I took a piss is on there,” Jones says, twisting to look at it. She winces when the movement jostles her leg, but Bucky doesn’t move to shift the blankets this time. “They’re really helpful here.” 

“With luck, Jones will be back on her base in another twenty-four hours,” Bucky says with a smile he doesn’t mean, shifting to put one hand behind his back to flip Jones off. 

“Very good,” Fury says to him, then turns to Barton. “In theory, your rounding seems efficient. When does your next doctor come on, I’d like to see the transition.” 

“It’s Stark,” Barton reminds him, and Fury rolls his eye. 

“The one after that, then,” Fury says, and leads the way out without another word.

Bucky lets himself relax when they leave, even if Rogers’s sudden silence has him concerned. He’s still stuck on that thought when Strange comes to relieve him. 

“No Stark?” Bucky asks, shrugging out of his lab coat and rolling his shoulders to loosen them up. 

“Barton switched him to the lab,” Strange says, dropping into the chair heavily. “Something about not wanting to fail the inspection on purpose.” 

“For the best, then,” Bucky says, and heads to the mess hall to eat something before he passes out. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> This comes out of the many, many M*A*S*H reruns from my formative years, but to be honest, I still watch it on the regular. This is a fast and loose adaptation based on the modern version in an unnamed but sandy location.


End file.
